When I Ruled the World
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Mycroft's life is at an end. He decides to spend his last few weeks in isolation with his younger brother Sherlock. Before he closes himself off from the rest of the world, he is visited by friends. Major character death. Suicidal thoughts.


Anthea was the first to visit him.

Of course, Anthea wasn't her real name. But it was the one she'd chosen when he'd brought her into his office when she'd been all of twenty-one years old and that made it as real as any other.

He could still remember the defiant set of her jaw as she stared at him across his desk. She'd been on the brink of going to jail. He'd made arrangements to spare her because he'd seen something in her he very rarely saw in others. She wasn't just clever. She was a determined survivor.

Anthea had more than proved her worth over the years. Now she sat primly on a chair next to his bed with a trembling chin and teary eyes.

She hadn't so much as glanced at her phone. "How long?" she asked.

"This will be the last time we talk," Mycroft said by way of reply. He'd grown weak in his illness, but he'd asked his brother to prop him up with pillows for the occasion.

Today was the day. The day when he'd last speak to those who wished to say goodbye to him before his life was snuffed out like the fickle flame it was. He had no intention of suffering through the rest of his illness publicly and this was the last step towards making that happen.

Anthea wiped her cheeks with a shaking hand. "I've made all the arrangements," she told him in a feeble attempt at professionalism. "All the paperwork's been processed. Sherlock will be taken care of and your parents will be seen to. John is on standby in case…"

Yes, in case he died. He didn't want Sherlock to be alone when he inevitably expired and he'd asked Anthea to prep John in advance. For all their bickering and snark, Mycroft knew his brother would take his death the hardest.

"Is he here?" he interrupted.

"Yes, in the library last I saw him."

"Send him in when you leave."

Anthea took a minute or two to compose herself before she spoke again. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft exhaled a weak laugh. "I think we're well past that, don't you think?" She sniffled. "Andrea," he continued in a gentler voice, this time using her real name. "You've been a friend to me for many years, even when I was at my most difficult. Thank you for that. You start at the Prime Minister's office next month, do you not?" She nodded mutely. "Good, you can keep the idiot in check."

Her smile was brittle. "Barely."

"It's all anyone can ask." Mycroft studied her young face one more time. Her cheeks were red and splotchy. "Please take care of yourself."

"Don't I always?" She reached for one of his hands. Very, very thin now and very, very cold. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Only ten minutes after she left the room John slipped in and closed the door behind him. Mycroft had his own team of specialists tending to his condition but John had been a steady presence throughout the process.

He'd been there through the chemotherapy and radiation. He'd talked Sherlock through the side effects. The dizzy spells. The nausea. The retching and the mood swings.

Mycroft's pancreatic cancer had been stage four by the time he started showing signs. There'd been little doctors could do save try and minimize the damage. Make him comfortable.

Sherlock didn't know but he'd consulted with John about the possibility of suicide. He'd received a stern lecture for his efforts. A warning that his little brother deserved more than Mycroft giving up on him.

The truth was that Mycroft wanted to save Sherlock the pain of watching him deteriorate to nothing more than an empty husk. He already had so many regrets where his brother was concerned. He'd thought he'd have more time to make them right. That perhaps with 20 or 30 more years on his hands he could right his wrongs and be the brother he deserved.

But there was no more time left. His train was reaching the end of the line and he'd have to step off whether he wanted to or not.

The last few months had been eye opening. Sherlock had stepped in to help him without hesitation or protest. He'd gone with him to every chemo and radiotherapy session. He'd crouched next to the toilet every time Mycroft couldn't keep the contents of his stomach from spilling over. When his hair began to fall out Sherlock had even taken a razor to his head and painstakingly gotten rid of the wispy strands.

A knitted cap was pulled low over his head when John settled into Anthea's chair. He clasped his hands between his knees. Eyed him not with pity or sympathy but with kindness.

"You've looked better," he said by way of greeting.

" _You've_ looked better _,_ " Mycroft retorted. "Bags under your eyes. Greying hair. Has your daughter inherited her mother's adventurous streak?"

John exhaled a sharp laugh. "She's still five but she's getting there."

"Sherlock won't stop talking about her. I believe the term is 'smitten'."

"Goes both ways." John sobered. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel like I'm dying."

"Pain?"

"Manageable." Mycroft exhaled and with it lost the strength he'd mustered for this series of visits. "I'm always tired. Always falling asleep."

"It's part of the process." John lowered his eyes to his hands and cleared his throat. He'd no doubt he'd seen death in its many incarnations. What was one more? "He'll be okay," he added after a short few seconds.

"He won't be." Mycroft's voice was very quiet. "But he'll have you. He'll have Mary. In time he'll move on." He paused very briefly. "You'll have to keep an eye on him."

"We will," John said seriously. "I promise, Mycroft…" He met his eyes. "Sherlock will be in good hands."

Mycroft couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep. When he opened his eyes again John was already gone. He was alone in his room and he felt so very cold. Long fingers fumbled for the edge of the blanket and pulled it up over his shoulders.

He wondered if the visits were over. If perhaps he'd done the rest of them and forgot. He was forgetting all sorts of things lately. His brilliant mind was slipping and he couldn't find the strength to grip it tight and hold on.

He was close to drifting off again when his bedroom door opened and an auburn haired woman stepped right on through. She exchanged a few words with his brother out in the hallway before enclosing them in privacy with a soft click.

He certainly hadn't forgotten _her_.

He'd met her several years ago on a trip to the States. Consulting for the CIA. He'd been impressed with her intelligence and intrigued by her demeanor.

The fact that she was physically every bit his type didn't hurt either. Between her sharp blue eyes, auburn hair and soft pink lips, he'd found himself staring. At the time he'd passed it off as nothing more than observation.

But he'd been taken with her ever since.

Their meetings over the years had been sporadic but meaningful. Long walks and longer conversations when their schedules allowed. He regretted that they hadn't made more time for each other when they could. He regretted not having explored the part of himself that craved her companionship well beyond the boundaries of friendship.

He regretted never saying the words. Often they'd bubbled up his throat and threatened to spill from his lips. Always he pushed them down in a panic.

Would it be selfish to say them now? Would it be selfish to voice that promise when breaking it was inevitable?

"How are you feeling?" She asked once she perched beside him on the bed. Her blue eyes were sharp as ever but her expression was soft. Mournful.

"Everyone asks me that these days," he quipped quietly but in good humor. "I didn't anticipate you'd come."

"I would've come sooner if I'd known," she answered immediately. "You should've told me. I would've—"

"There was nothing you could do."

"Taken advantage of the time we had left, for one," she finished severely.

Mycroft reached for one of her hands. "Yet another regret I'll be taking with me to the grave."

She clasped his fingers in a tight grip and drew a shaky breath. "I'm sorry. You know I'm not prone to bouts of sentimentality but you are important to me." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I wish we had more time."

"Naomi…" Mycroft studied her features and committed them to memory. A frown had taken up residence between her brows. His fingers itched to smooth it out. "Words cannot express how much you've come to mean to me. You were never just a friend to me." Her eyes flicked up to meet his. Blue and teary and still as fierce as he remembered. "I'm sorry I wasn't better at expressing it."

"We're both guilty of that mistake." Naomi sniffled. "I'm staying a few days."

"I'm afraid I'm not very good company at the moment."

"I don't care." Her grip tightened on his hand. "If this is the last time we'll be seeing each other I'm going to make the most of it. I've already spoken to your brother."

Mycroft blinked slowly. His pale lips, dry and cracked, stretched in a shaky smile. "Is it any wonder I love you?"

Naomi stifled a sob with her hand. She'd always been very private with her emotions. She never made a show of her tears or put her vulnerability on display. What she was showing him now was pain and heartbreak and so very private. Mycroft regretted that he was partly to blame.

He pulled her down into the bed and held her for a long time. She returned the words eventually. Soft and whispered between shaky breaths.

 _I love you too._

Eventually he fell asleep to the sound of her breathing against his shoulder. Her heartbeat strong and healthy against his side so very different from his own thready pulse.

Sherlock came to get her eventually when it was time for him to eat. A week later, she was gone.

"Left for the airport just now," Sherlock announced once he'd settled into a chair in front of the fireplace. Mycroft had been moved from the bed to a chair as well. He was tired of wasting away in his bed. He felt restless.

Cloudy blue eyes stared into the flame. "How was she?"

"Heartbroken." Sherlock never lied to him anymore. He appreciated it immensely. "Inevitable, I'm afraid. She would've stayed longer if you'd let her."

"It wouldn't have been fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." Sherlock's voice was quiet, like a lost little boy. When Mycroft swung his eyes to look at him he found him staring into his teacup with his shoulders slumped.

"It's not," Mycroft agreed, shifting his his chair in hopes of finding comfort. He was so thin and frail and bony every surface felt too hard. "I'm so sorry, Sherly."

"Sorry?" Sherlock huffed, clinked his cup against the saucer and set both items down. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You're dying and it's not your fault. I wish it were. Then I could be angry with you instead of feeling, so… so…" He flailed miserably with his hands. "Helpless!"

Mycroft didn't interrupt, knowing he needed to get this out.

"I've gone over it and over it with John, specialists, and I can't save you. My, I can't save you and you…" He choked on his words all but shaking now. "You've saved me so many times. What am I going to do?"

"Sherly, come here."

"No," he snapped. "I'm not supposed to do this. I'm supposed to be strong. For you, because you need me to be. I won't fail in that too."

Mycroft found a scrap of himself still wrapped like a tattered ribbon around one of his bones. He took hold of it and channeled his inner Older Brother. His voice dripped with well-intentioned command.

"What I need is for you to come here."

Sherlock slid sulkily out of his chair and a moment later plopped himself unceremoniously beside Mycroft's legs. His eyes were red and downcast. He wouldn't look at him.

"You have never failed me," he began, and hushed Sherlock's protest with a raised hand. "Ever. I know I've said things to the contrary over the years, Sherly, but you are human. You are allowed to make mistakes. It is my job to be there for you when that happens." He dropped his hand to smooth Sherlock's curls away from his forehead as if he were still little. "I know I haven't been very good at it, and that my methods have always left a lot to be desired, but everything I've ever done I've done because I love you. I am proud of the man you have become, faults and all."

Sherlock sagged against Mycroft's legs, resting his head on a sharp blanket-covered knee. "I love you too," he said shakily, finally giving in to the overwhelming emotion he'd been keeping at bay. "I don't want you to die."

Mycroft ran his fingers through his brother's hair and exhaled a tired laugh. "Neither do I."

The days came too quickly and too slowly all at once. Sherlock put all his cases on hold to focus on helping Mycroft through his last couple of weeks. His body was deteriorating rapidly. He was always cold. Always tired. He sometimes lost his train of thought mid-sentence.

After a while he stopped eating. Regardless of Sherlock's protests or John's entreaties, he wasn't interested. He was close. John came to stay with Sherlock at the estate in preparation.

Death finally came for Mycroft on a rainy day in June. He'd been wheeled close to one of the many floor to ceiling windows overlooking his sprawling gardens. Sherlock sat beside him with a book in his hands. A remnant of their childhood and one Mycroft had read to him many times over when they'd been younger.

He'd picked it out to read when Mycroft's speech dwindled. He no longer held conversations or bothered to try. He was slipping. But Sherlock reading _The Hobbit_ always made him smile.

" _There are no safe paths in this part of the world_ ," he read. " _Remember you are over the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go._ "

Mycroft had suffered enough over the last few months that his final seconds were almost peaceful. A fire crackling quietly in the background. Rain pattering the glass in front of him with thick drops of water. Sherlock's voice nothing but a comforting murmur in his ears. He grasped at the familiar words as his eyes lost their focus and slid shut.

"Keep reading," was his last request.

Sherlock read for hours before John finally found him bent over his book. Shoulders shaking through wracking sobs. "I need to keep going," he insisted, gasping for breath. "I need—"

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and gripped him tight. "Sherlock," he spoke quietly, steadily, "he's gone."

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. "No, you don't understand, he _asked_ me to."

"Right." John's eyes cut to Mycroft in his chair. His eyes were closed and his chin was tucked against his chest. Sherlock shook in his arms. "Then keep reading," he said finally. "I'll be right here."

Sherlock read the final page at his funeral.


End file.
